


Edge of the Wire

by miss_aphelion



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Alternate Ending, Betrayal, Codependency, Forgiveness, Gen, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:46:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_aphelion/pseuds/miss_aphelion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tell me you didn't do it," he says. "Just try and tell me you didn't do it." </p>
<p>Jesse's voice comes through his headphones accompanied by little vibrations, emotion his audio can't translate. Hank closes his eyes and curses, because this isn't what he was supposed to do. General questions, let Walt talk, let him dig his own grave, that's what he was supposed to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hank

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this prompt](http://brbakinkmeme.livejournal.com/521.html?thread=679433#t679433) from the Breaking Bad Kink Meme (I really have to stop reading those prompts, because they keep eating my brain. 
> 
> This will probably end up being 4 or 5 short chapters, but I didn't want to commit to a limit just yet!

Hank can hear the roaring in his ears as Jesse Pinkman slowly makes his way over to Walt. This is it, he thinks, this is it. He wipes his sweaty palms on his pants and drags air in through his mouth. He can practically hear Gomez sending 'calm down' vibes, but his old partner knows him well enough by now not to speak. 

"Jesse," he hears Walt whisper. 

It's the tone that catches him off guard. That's the voice Walt uses with Skyler and the kids—that kind of breathless, hopeful, I can't believe I have you in my life kind of tone. It doesn't make any sense for him to be using it here. 

"You wanted to explain, so explain," Jesse says, and Hank watches him stumble back a step when Walt moves to stand, like he's terrified. Hank forces back the guilt at sending the kid out there like a lamb to slaughter. 

There isn't anything for it. There isn't any other way. 

"Yes," Walt says, dropping back down onto the bench. "Yes, of course. Jesse, I can explain." 

"Tell me you didn't do it," he says. "Just try and tell me you didn't do it." 

Jesse's voice comes through his headphones accompanied by little vibrations, emotion his audio can't translate. Hank closes his eyes and curses, because this isn't what he was supposed to do. General questions, let Walt talk, let him dig his own grave, that's what he was supposed to do. 

"I didn't have a choice," Walt starts. 

"There is always a choice!" Jesse shouts. Hank tenses as a couple of passerby's glance over. Don't draw attention, he orders silently, but Jesse is looking at Walt like the rest of the world has dropped away. He wonders if he even remembers the wire. "Always, Mr. White. Don't pretend like you didn't choose to do every single thing you've ever done." 

Walt does stand then. Jesse stumbles back again but Walt grabs him before he can get far, pulling him back in a step by a grip on his arm. Hank watches carefully but the move seems more desperate than threatening. "Okay, Jesse, I made a choice," he says calmly. "I made a very hard choice, in order to keep us safe. To keep both of us safe." 

"I don't care if we're safe. Not at the expense of Brock. He's six years old, Mr. White. He's a child, and you— you poisoned him," Jesse says, so softly Hank almost can't make it out. "Like he was some game piece. Like he was just part of some web you were spinning. How could you do that?"

"I didn't give him enough to kill him," Walt assures him quickly. "I just gave him enough that you would think it was Gus that had done it. You weren't listening to reason, Jesse. So yes. I had a choice. I could kill you or I could get you back on my side." 

"Then you should have killed me," Jesse says. Hank freezes for a moment, lifting the binoculars to watch them closer. He means it, he thinks. 

"Don’t say that," Walt says, the sudden snap of his voice nearly sends feedback through the wire. "Don't you ever say that, Jesse. Not after all I have done to save you." 

"Honestly, Mr. White, with all you've done to save me I don't know how I'm still alive," Jesse says. 

"Jesse, Jesse," Walt says, reaching out and grabbing the kid's face. Hank can see him shake him, cupping his face and forcing him to look at him. It's weird to watch Walt have this kind of connection with someone he doesn't even know. If he'd had any doubts left that Walt had been living a secret life, this would have ended them. It's like Jesse is part of some second family, like he has a whole other life. "Please. I need you to understand." 

"But I do," Jesse says, glancing up at him. He reaches up and clasps his hands around Walt's wrists, before roughly pulling them away. "I do understand. I understand all of it, Mr. White. I even get why you did it. I really do. Don't you see? _That's_ what's scaring the hell out of me—the fact that you know what you've done and you still think you were right." 

"Specifics," Hank mutters. "I need specifics, kid." 

"What do you want from me?" Walt asks. "What is it you need? Just tell me. Do you want more money? Because I can get you another five million by tonight, Jesse." 

Hank knows that's a bad move even before Walt does. He can see the disgusted expression on Jesse's face clear as day through the binoculars. 

"This has never been about the money! Don't you get it yet? I don't care about our fucking blood money!" Jesse screams. "I only did it for you!" 

"Jesse—" 

"I would have done anything for you, but you aren't who I thought," Jesse says. "It was all a lie. God. You orchestrated everything, every single detail, from the moment you showed up at my house." 

"It wasn't like that, I promise you," Walt says. "I never meant for any of this to happen." 

"Yes you did. Yes you did! You manipulated me, right from the start," Jesse says. "And now? The things I've done…there's no coming back from them." 

"That's not true, I don't believe that," Walt says. "Maybe there's no coming back for me, but you still can, Jesse. That's all I want." 

"Why are you acting like this?" Jesse asks, the emotion bleeding away from his voice to leave him sounding almost eerily calm. "Why are you acting like I matter? Why don't you just kill me already?" 

"Christ," Hank mutters. "Stupid kid." 

"We need to get him out of there," Gomez says in concern. 

Hank shakes his head, holding out a hand to stall him. "No, give him a minute," he says. 

"Like you did Mike, like those ten other guys you ordered killed before they could talk. Remember them? Remember Drew Sharp?" Jesse demands. "How about Gus? Or I don't know, maybe you think he doesn't count. After all, you only built the bomb. You didn't set it off." 

"What do you want me to say, Jesse?" Walt asks tiredly. 

"I want you to be sorry! I want you to say you're sorry for the things you've done. For the people you've killed. I want you to admit to it, for once. To stop dressing it all up like it was some business decision. Like you didn't want to, you just had to let them go because they weren't working out, or something. That's what I want, Mr. White," Jesse says. "But I know I won't ever get it." 

"Jesse, I am sorry," Walt whispers. "I'm sorry I killed Mike, because I know you cared for him. I didn't want to kill the others, either. But that was for us. This has always been—" 

"About us," Jesse laughs. "You always have a reason, don't you? It's for your family, or it's for me, but it never really is, is it? Because who have you hurt more than us?" 

"Jesse, please—" 

"Say you did it for yourself," Jesse says. "Say you did because it was what you wanted! Because you wanted an empire! That's what you said!" 

"Is he trying to clear out the park?" Gomez asks, leaning up beside Hank. Most of the nearby pedestrians were now giving the place a wide berth. 

"Probably for the best," Hank says, unconcerned. He focuses instead completely on Walt. 

"I did it for myself," Walt says after a moment. "I liked it, I liked being in charge. I liked the power. But, Jesse, that doesn't mean—" 

"Good," Jesse interrupts sharply. "Now admit that you're here to kill me." 

"I'm not going to kill you," Walt says gently. Hank knows that tone too. That's the tone he used to use on Flynn when he was little and sick. "I want to help you, but you have to let me, Jesse. Don't you understand yet that I love you, you stupid—if you'd only stop and _think_ , you'd know how important you are. You'd realize that I could never kill you. Okay? I never could." 

"Not even if I tell you I'm wearing a wire?" Jesse asks after a moment, and Hank's heart skips a beat. He should have expected this, he should have known the kid would try something like this. He was practically a walking death wish. 

"Shit, shit," Hank shouts, as he scrambles to get out of the van—it's no use, really. He knows he'll never make it in time on his leg. "Now, Gomez, move now!" 

Gomez is shouting at Walt to show his hands by the time he gets there. Jesse is limp in Walt's arms—but the kid's not dying like Hank expects.

He's only crying.


	2. Saul

Saul is halfway through his daily massage when the bat phone rings. He almost doesn't answer it, because his bruises still have bruises and really those two are more trouble than they're worth. 

Except they really are worth a hell out of a lot. 

Saul irritably waves away the masseuse and grabs for the phone. "What?" he demands. 

"It's over, Saul." 

He almost doesn't recognize the voice. He sits up sharply. "Walt?" 

"I'm not getting out of this one," he says. "Only got six months left, anyway. Probably won't live through the trial." 

"What the hell happened?" Saul asks quickly. "Where do they have you? I can be there in like five minutes flat." 

"No!" Walt snaps. "Forget about me. What I need you to do now is help Jesse. I don't want him in prison, not for a second. I don't care what you have to do, but your only job now is to keep him safe. Do you understand me? I want them to hold him for a psych evaluation, because if we just get Jesse out on bail he'll only get himself killed. I need you to make that happen. Get him help, then get him clear." 

"Who do you think I am?" Saul demands. "Look, I'm good okay, but I've had my ear to the ground since I found out he'd been picked up, and this kid has been confessing to pretty much everything but the Kennedy assassination. I'm not a miracle worker." 

"Just get him off, Saul," Walt snarls. "I don't care what it takes. I'm going to confess to everything either of us ever did, and money isn't going to be an issue, you know that. I'll pay whatever it takes." 

Money, Saul thinks, as he hangs up. It was definitely a lot of money. And he probably does owe the kid, after nearly going all Old Yeller on him. He heaves a heavy sigh, consoles himself with the thought of stacks of hundreds, and shows up at the DEA five minutes later. He bypasses the receptionist and lets himself into Hank Schrader's office. 

Schrader looks up and narrows his eyes. "No way you actually think you're getting Walt out on bail," he says. 

Saul glances to the side as he notices Gomez leaning against the window, then turns a huge, fake grin on Schrader. "Walt? As in Walter White?" Saul asks, looking shocked. "That would be a bit of a conflict of interest. My client is Jesse Pinkman." 

"Pinkman?" Gomez asks suspiciously, as he straightens up.

"Yeah, you know the guy. Your star witness? Puppy dog eyes? About yay-high?" Saul says, and lifts his hand. "Ringing any bells?" 

"What do you want with Pinkman?" Schrader demands. 

Saul swings his briefcase onto the desk and then sits down dramatically. "I want to talk deals," he says. 

"Little late for that," Schrader says. "We've got a full taped confession." 

"It'll never hold up. The kid's got Stockholm Syndrome like something from a text book. Heard of Patty Hearst? Anyone? Anyone? I mean, what are you going to say, honestly? That he did it for the money?" Saul asks. "I've never seen anyone less interested in money than this kid. He's practically Robin freakin' Hood." 

"He's got a point," Gomez says, and Schrader tosses him a glare.

"Look, the kid's remorseful," Saul says. "He's so goddamn remorseful it's practically leaking out of his eyes. Not to mention you give him a shave, gel his hair a bit, and he looks all of twelve years old, my hand to God. No jury is going to want to convict him, and that's a fact." 

"Evidence we have against him?" Schrader says. "Jury won't have a choice." 

"Evidence? What evidence? _He_ is all the evidence you've got." Saul leans forward conspiratorially. "You want my honest opinion?" 

"You sure that won't kill you?" Schrader snaps. 

Saul ignores him. "The kid needs help. Stick him in a psych ward and let him do finger paintings for a few months. Maybe put him on some medication, because I'd be lying if I said he wasn't just a tad unstable. But do not try and make a villain out of him, or you'll regret it. I'll spin the PR on this case so much people will be lining up around your front doors with 'Free Jesse' signs." 

"He killed Gale Boetticher," Hank snarls. "We can't just let him off with a slap on the wrist." 

"He killed—he killed—" Saul laughs. "Have you even met this kid? He couldn't kill anyone. Walt has him so turned around he blames himself for everything and practically rewrote history in his head, sure, but he never actually pulled the trigger. I thought you knew that Walt plans to confess to Boetticher's murder, along with his other numerous crimes. Because, hey, what's one more consecutive life sentence amongst friends, am I right?" 

"You don't really expect me to believe that?" Schrader asks. 

"I don't need you to believe it," Saul says, leaning back and crossing his legs on the table. "I just need everyone else to believe it." 

Schrader reaches out and pushes Saul's feet off the table, but Saul doesn't let it faze him. "This is my final offer boys," he says. "You put the kid away in the crazy farm until things calm down or he works through his issues in group therapy. Then you cut him loose, or send him into WitSec, I don't really care. Either way, you never have to see him again. That's the only way you're going to trial with his testimony on your side." 

"Give us a minute," Schrader says tightly. 

Saul nods and grabs his briefcase, before quickly heading out to wait in the hall. He leans back against the door, however, and can clearly make out their voices though the cheap plastic-pretending-to-be-glass paneled door. 

"I think we should take the deal," Gomez says. 

"Yeah, I know. Damn it," Schrader says. "It's not like we've got a choice." 

"If it makes you feel any better, I think this is the first time Saul Goodman might have been telling the truth," Gomez says. "Walt messed with this kid's head, Hank. Remember when we brought him in that first time? Do you even recognize him from that?" 

Schrader takes a shaky breath, running a hand down his eyes as he shakes his head. 

"He's been playing all of us, maybe Pinkman most of all," Gomez says. "Maybe the kid's been through enough." 

"See that it gets it done," Schrader says, and then pushes out the doors and past Saul. Saul shouts after him in a last ditch effort to regain his attention, but he knows where Schrader is headed. 

Straight towards Walter White.


	3. Walter

The mind of Walter White is a very complex thing. For so long he had himself switched off, set to auto-pilot—work, kiss the wife, pat Walt Jr. on the head, sleep, back to work. It was like he'd spent the last fifty years dreaming. 

Then he started dying, and he woke up. 

He can't see the world the same way anymore. It's so much more vibrant than he'd ever realized, and he still can't believe how many different shades there are of the color red. 

Even people aren't the same, anymore, Walter thinks, as he watches Hank sit across from him. Just think of Jesse—that up-to-no-good kid in his fourth period class from almost a decade ago. He'd never really seen Jesse.

And Hank—the bumbling uncle, he's so different in this context. Steely-eyed and self-righteous, but smart. So much smarter than Walter had given him credit for. 

"I guess this means the Sunday barbeque is off?" Walter asks. 

"We've got you on tape," Hank says tensely. Walter can practically see him trying to erase their history, trying to wipe the slate clean to make them criminal and cop. As though anything could be that black and white. 

"Yes," Walter says. He'd known the moment he laid eyes on Jesse that he was wired. That's when the plan started to form—oh, not to save himself, not this time. But to save the rest of them as much as he could. 

"It's all I need," Hank continues. "But you can drag this out, if you want. You could probably drag it out till you're dead." Hank leans forward angrily. "But do you really want to do that to them?" 

"Just ask for what you want," Walter says. 

"A signed confession, for starters," Hank says. "The last couple of years of my life back for another." 

"Ah, I'm afraid I can't help you with the last one," Walt says. "We might be able to arrange something for the first." 

"You've got no play here, you get that right?" Hank asks. 

"I think you know me well enough not to believe that," Walt says casually. "There's plenty I could do. For instance, Jesse could mysteriously disappear before he ever gets to testify." 

"You're not going to touch him," Hank says with certainty. "You love this kid. I don't get it, I don't know why, but you do. Maybe even more than your own goddamned family." 

"You're right, I do care about Jesse," Walt says angrily. "But you're the one that's put him in danger. We have…certain, associates that don't take kindly to 'rats.'" 

Hank's eyes spark as he realizes where Walter is leading him. "You're trying to get me to put him in protective custody," he says. "You want him dragged off to WitSec where he'll be safe. But that's not going to happen." 

"If you drag him into this, he dies," Walt says. "You really want that on your conscience?" 

"What do I care about some murdering junkie?" Hank asks. 

"Everything Jesse has done has been self-defense," Walt says, leaning forward, eyes darkening. "Because I can assure you, I had him fully convinced his life depended on everything I made him do. He would never have hurt anyone on his own." 

"Is that guilt, really?" Hank asks. "No remorse about any of this shit you've done, none of it but what you've done to him. What the hell is with you two?" 

"Have you ever seen into someone's soul, Hank?" Walter asks. "I'm not talking about what you have with Marie, because this is nothing like what I have with Skylar. I know Jesse inside and out. I've been locked in a trunk, blindfolded and forced to my knees beside him. I've watched him shatter into a million pieces because of things _I've_ done, and then I put him all back together just in time to break him apart again." 

Walter watches Hank for a reaction, but his brother-in-law looks like he's carved from stone. "You remember the quote? The one Gale wrote to me? Gale was nothing, but the sentiment, now that was beautiful. That's what Jesse is to me." 

"Were you screwing this kid?" Hank asks, an expression of horror finally breaking through. 

"No," Walter says simply, pushing himself back again in the chair. "We never had a sexual relationship. That's not what this is. It's just that he belongs to me, and I belong to him." 

"Jesse hates you," Hank says smugly. "I mean, honest to god, this kid despises you. I think this is all in your head." 

Walter lets out an impatient huff of breath, lazily moving his gaze to the corner of the room. "Have you ever seen a goldsmith at work, Hank?" he asks. "It's such a wonderful little element, gold. Malleable, beautiful and bright." He moves his gaze back to Hank. "You work it gently enough and you can make a masterpiece, but if you push even a little too hard, it'll crack straight through." 

Walter clasps his hands on the table. "I pushed too hard, I get that now," he says. "But even broken, he's still _mine_." 

"Jesus, who the hell are you?" Hank breathes. "What is it you want?" 

"I'll confess to everything, with conditions," Walt says. "You keep Jesse out of this, completely. You take Saul's deal, and you don't put him on the stand. No one knows he was ever working with you. I don't even want his name anywhere on the case files, you redact every single instance of it."

"I can't do that," Hank says. 

"Yes you can," Walt says. "Come on, Hank, that was the easy part." 

Hank watches him suspiciously. "I'll think about it," he says. "What's the hard part?" 

"I want ten minutes with Jesse," Walt says. "Alone." 

Hank laughs. "Yeah," he says. "No." 

"No?" Walter asks. "It's not much that I'm asking for." 

Hank leans across the table. "I'm betting you could turn this kid's head around with five minutes, nevermind ten," he says. "You really think I'm going to give you the chance to talk him out of talking?" 

Walter sees his point. He wonders if it's true, if he could get Jesse back, in just ten minutes, if he could—but no, they're too far past that. There is no saving himself, not anymore. 

"I'll sign the confession, first," Walter decides. "As an act of good faith. You, in return, will bring Jesse here to me, and give me my ten minutes." 

"I'll get you some paper," Hank says. 

Walter starts writing when Hank comes back. He writes down every single word, every single name, from Tuco to Todd. Uncle Jack's gang is going to want a rat, and he wants to make sure they know it's him that talked. 

He pulls the pen away from the tablet and Hank raises an eyebrow. "You done?" he asks softly, sounding almost like Hank the brother-in-law, and not Hank the ASAC of the DEA.

Walter tries to remember the sound of it, because he knows in just a moment he's going to blow any chance of ever hearing it again. 

"No," he says. "There's one more." He swallows hard. "Jane Margolis." 

"The air controller's daughter?" Hank asks, frowning. "I remember that. That was an overdose." 

"Yes, and I watched it happen," Walt says, glancing up. "I watched the life go out of her and made no move to stop it." 

Hank looks shaken for the first time since this all started, shocked and sort of pale. "Walter, what the hell are you talking about?" 

"She tried to take Jesse from me," Walter says, and then he signs his name along the edge of the page. 

Hank rips it away the moment he's done, before surging to his feet. His eyes are full of rage and betrayal and disbelief, but that's fine. Walter always knew it might end like this. 

"Now it's your turn," he says. "I want to see him." 

"Ten minutes," Hank snarls. "And not one goddamn second more." 

Walter nods calmly, because ten will have to be enough.


	4. Jesse

Jesse had fallen asleep with his head on the interrogation table. Saul wakes him up when he comes barreling unceremoniously in, two pens held in his mouth and a stack of papers and his briefcase carried precariously beneath both arms. 

Jesse frowns at him. He hasn't forgiven the bastard for his part in what happened to Brock, but he does feel sort of bad about the bruises spreading out from his mouth. Saul probably would have drawn the line at hurting a kid if he'd known, and it's not exactly like Jesse has high moral ground. 

"What are you doing here?" he asks. His voice is rough, sounds like it's been scrubbed with sandpaper and doesn't feel much better. He feels all clogged up from everything he's been keeping inside, and he can't decide whether or not he's thankful to see a familiar face. 

Jesse's never really liked being alone, but Schrader had ushered him in here the moment they got back and locked the door behind him. 

Jesse doesn't even know how long it's been. 

"Hey, kid," Saul says pleasantly, like the last days haven't happened. "They treatin' you alright? Water and potty breaks, that sort of thing? Maybe some Krispy Kreams?"

"What are you doing here, Saul?" Jesse asks again. 

Saul drops everything onto the table and then falls into the seat across from him. "Been asking myself that question all morning," he says. "But you know, the aggravated assault aside, I still sort of like you. So I thought, hey, why not make sure you don't completely fuck up your life? So here's the deal. In deference to your current unstable mental state, the DEA has agreed to drop all charges—" 

"What?" Jesse interrupts, leaning forward angrily. "You told them I was crazy?" 

"Kid, I hate to be the one to break this to you, but you're fucking nuts," Saul tells him, apparently unfazed by Jesse's anger. He opens his briefcase and pulls out a folder. "How long do you think you'd last if they just cut you loose?" 

"They were never going to cut me loose," Jesse says. "I'm gonna do time, I know that. I confessed to murder, Saul." 

"Yeah, thanks for that, by the way," Saul says. "You know how I love a challenge." 

"Schrader will never let me walk," Jesse says with certainty. 

"Schrader doesn't care about you one way or another, and if he'd tried to press charges I would have brought up his history with you," Saul says. "Guy already has a drug lord for a brother-in-law, he doesn't need any more attention brought to his past failings, if you get my drift." 

Jesse swallows hard. "No, no way," he says. "No way am I getting off." 

Saul freezes and stares at him in disappointment. "You really are the worst criminal I've ever known," he says. "This is good news, do you remember good? Is this registering with you? You're clear, kid. The deal's been made." 

Saul pulls a printout from the folder and slides it across to him. "Behold, the Clear Waters Rehabilitation Center," he says. "It's like a day spa for junkie nutcases. You'll fit right in." 

"No," Jesse says. 

"They treat everything from drug addictions to all assortments of mental and emotional disorders," he continues, oblivious. "How about we just pick out a few, and you can work on those?"

"I'm not going," Jesse says firmly. 

Saul finally looks up from the printout then. "Ah, yeah, actually you are," he says. "This is as good as it gets, kid. No charges, no time, no testimony—because it turns out I'm a goddamned miracle worker after all. But you only get it on the agreement that you get help. It turns out that tossing millions of dollars out your car window doesn't exactly make you the poster boy of stable. Go figure."

"I'm fine," Jesse snarls. "And I'm _stable_ enough to know what I've done." 

"Yeah, you're fine alright," Saul snorts. "Pulling a gun on me? Trying to burn down Walt's house? That ain't you. You've had some kind of mental breakdown or something, same thing happened to my aunt Melinda. One day her idea of excitement is a Matlock marathon on TBS, the next day she starts killing off her cats so she can have them stuffed to decorate her living room."

Jesse frowns over at him. "What happened to her?" 

"What?" Saul asks, taken aback. "I don't--I mean, she can still feed herself, she's fine. Look, you're completely missing the point of my story."

"And what is that?" Jesse asks. 

"You're going to rehab whether you want to or not," Saul says easily. "You need help, kid, so this is where we're at. Three months, that's the deal, and it's nicer than the Hilton. Hell, I'd go with you, but I can't fucking afford the place." 

"Why are you doing this?" Jesse asks, as he absently traces the picture on the printout. He doesn't look up. "Why are you still trying to help me?" 

"We've been through a lot, right?" Saul says. "Look, I get why you punched the shit out of me, I deserved it with what I did. But I didn't know, okay? I didn't know what he was going to do, and you didn't kill me, right? Because you get that." 

Saul sighs, closing his briefcase with a snap. "He's been using us all, but maybe it matters more what he's doing now," he says. "Because if it doesn't, then there's no hope for any of us." 

"And what if there's not?" Jesse asks. 

"Listen up, because this is the last time I'm going to give you this advice." Saul pushes half across the table, forcing Jesse to meet his eyes. "Walt's trying to do one good thing before he dies, and that's save you. Maybe you don't owe anything to him anymore, but you owe this to yourself. So take the damn deal." 

"Okay," Jesse says softly. He looks up. "Fine. Okay." 

"Wonderful," Saul says, and then pauses. "There's just one tiny caveat. A little favor. Should only take like ten minutes, tops." 

"And that is?" Jesse demands, instantly suspicious. 

"Walt wants to see you one last time," Saul says quickly. 

"What?" Jesse asks, looking up in shock. 

"It's a condition of his confession," Saul says quietly. "Coulda asked for his wife, coulda even tried for his kids. But the only one he demanded to see was you." 

Jesse feels instantly sick, like he's just been dragged underneath a tidal wave. He shakes his head. "No," he says. "Don't ask me this, don't—" 

"You don't have to talk to him, you don't have to make nice or forgive him," Saul assures him. "You can sing _Row, Row, Row Your Boat_ at the top of your lungs through the entire thing for all I care, but you're going." 

He tries to imagine sitting across from Mr. White. Sitting there and looking him in the eyes. Sitting there and—and he can't. 

"They'll be coming to get you in a few minutes," Saul says as he gets to his feet. "So you had better make your peace with it." 

Jesse swallows hard. "What am I supposed to say?" 

"Christ, kid, I don't know," Saul says. "Maybe try 'goodbye.'"


	5. Hank

Walt had demanded to have his meeting with Jesse alone, but Hank isn't stupid enough to shut down the video feed. He can't trust a word Walt says, anymore. He doesn't think he'd hurt the kid but it could be an act, just to get him alone. 

It won't gain him anything now that the confession is in writing, but that just means that Walt has even less to lose.

"This is a bad idea," Gomez mutters. "Kid barely survived the first time." 

"Consider it his penance," Hank snorts, but it's mostly forced. Pinkman had looked terrified when he'd seen him getting led down the hall, like he was heading to his execution. 

Hank just hopes to high heaven that he isn't. 

"Walt know we're listening?" Gomez asks. 

"He's not stupid," Hank says. "He knows this is as good as he's getting it." 

As if he could hear them, Walt's eyes flicker towards the camera. His lips twitch in an almost-smirk, like he knows exactly who's watching. Hank fights back a shiver. 

Hank's starting to regret not having Walt cuffed to the table. It's so easy to forget, even now, how dangerous he is. He looks in Walt's eyes now and it's like history gets slowly rewritten, all of his actions these past years thrown into doubt and turned sinister. 

But then, sometimes, he looks at Walt and it's like nothing happened at all. 

"I'm gonna need you ready to go grab Pinkman out of there if it comes to it," Hank says. "My leg's not up to it." 

Gomez just nods, before tilting his head back towards the video feed. Pinkman is in the picture now, fidgeting nervously beside the door. He looks Walt over like he's surprised to see him free, and Hank curses again. Stupid, stupid—no one wonder they had rules about not letting family get mixed up in cases. 

He's just about to ask Gomez to go cuff him when Walt holds his hands out to Pinkman like he's surrendering, and sits down on the edge of the table. He looks harmless. Good ole' Walt, schoolteacher Walt, brother-in-law Walt. 

Hank lets out a shaky breath, and tries to focus on the screen. 

"Do you really think I'm going to hurt you, Jesse?" Walt asks quietly. 

Pinkman swallows hard. "Why not?" he asks. "We hurt each other all the time." 

Walt glances away. "But never on purpose," he says mildly. "I'm guessing by your presence here, that you took the deal Saul made. That's good. I'm glad. I think—" 

"Are we really going to do this?" Jesse asks quietly, and he seems dangerous suddenly. It's like a switch has been flipped, and Pinkman's eyes have hardened. Hank always thought the punk was a bit dim, just another junkie clone fried on meth and video games like his buddy Wolverine, or Codger, or whatever the hell he was called. 

Except he couldn't be, not to have held together for two years under Walt's thumb. Not and still be able to fight against him, still find ways around him, ways under his skin. 

Hank had mockingly compared Jesse to Walt's family, but he can see it now. That's exactly what they are. Only family could hate each other this much, and still not bear to let go. 

"I know you're angry, but we don't have much time," Walt says, leaning forward intently. "I need you to listen to me." 

Pinkman pulls back against the door, like he's trying to get as far from Walter as he can. He gives a sort of half-shurg, and it's all the encouragement Walt needs. 

Walt nods sharply, and then gets to his feet. "Do you remember where we first cooked together?" 

"You want to reminisce? Really?" Jesse asks incredulously. "Why don't you just tell me what the hell it is that you want? Cause I know that's the only reason that I'm here." 

"Do you remember?" Walt repeats seriously, turning to stare the younger man down. "Jesse. Answer me." 

"Why should I?" Jesse demands, before glancing away towards the wall. 

"This is very important," Walt says carefully. He sounds like he's giving a lecture. Hank visited his class once, and he'd been impressed, watching Walt speak to his students. He remembers the animated way he used his hands, his eyes bright as he spoke about chemistry like it was everything—which, if his lecture is to be believed, it is. 

"Please, Jesse, I need you to focus," Walt says. "We're running out of time." 

"Yeah, whatever," Jesse says. 

"No, not 'whatever.' I need you to look at me," Walt snaps, "and _listen_." 

"No," Pinkman says, and Walt looks for a moment like he's been slapped. Hank wonders if maybe that's the first time the kid's ever said that to him, and really meant it. "I am _done_ listening to you. Okay? I am _done_!"

"Jesse—" 

"You shouldn't have wasted this visit on me," Pinkman says, with a laugh that sounds just this side of hysterical. "Cause you see, I know you. I probably know you better than anyone." 

"Jesse—" 

"You didn't have me brought here to check on me, or say goodbye," Jesse snaps. "You want something from me. You want something, right? So just ask!" 

Pinkman has slowly been making his way closer, and now they're nearly face-to-face. It's making Hank's trigger-finger itch, the way they're poised as if they're about to tear each other apart. But Walt doesn't seem to notice how close Pinkman is to snapping, or maybe, Hank decides, he just doesn't care. 

"What do you think I want?" Walt asks calmly. 

"I don't know. Maybe you want me dead," Pinkman says. "Maybe you just want to be forgiven." 

"That's what you think this is?" Walt asks gently. "I know I'll never be forgiven. Maybe you're right, maybe I want it, but it's not what I'm asking for. I need you to _pay attention_." 

"Pay attention, listen up, do it this way, not like that," Jesse sneers. "I'm not your partner anymore, _Mr. White_ , and I'm sure as hell not your student." 

"Yes you are," Walt says, and pushes to his feet. He steps closer to Pinkman, and the kid stumbles back. "You always will be, and you owe me this." 

"I owe you?" Pinkman whispers, his voice tinged with disbelief. 

"You sold me out," Walt says. "I'm the only one protecting you here. There's no one else, Jesse, and if you don't start listening, you're going to be left with _nothing_." 

"You've already left me with nothing," Pinkman says.

"You say I want to be forgiven, well, what do you want, Jesse?" Walter demands. "Would you really believe me, if I told you I was sorry?" 

Pinkman laughs, and moves away until his back hits the wall. He's right beneath the camera, and Hank can hardly make him out. 

"I don't like this," Gomez says beside him. "I don't like the way he's looking at him, Hank." 

"I promised him ten minutes," Hank says. "He won't hurt him." 

Hank sounds more confident than he feels, but Walt won't try anything. Not like this, not now. He has to believe that.

"It's not that I wouldn't want to, but how could I?" Pinkman asks. "You can't be sorry. You still don't even realize what you've done." 

"Yes, well, neither do you," Walt says, and he surges forward, pinning Pinkman to the wall. 

Hank doesn't know what Walt's planning until it's too late. He sees the whip of the camera's cord swing in front of the lens for just a split second, before the feed goes black. 

"Shit," Hank shouts, and his heart nearly stops. He turns to yell at Gomez, but he's already gone, scrambling across the hall. Hank throws himself towards the door, bouncing off the doorjamb before stumbling into the interview room. 

Gomez has Walt held against the wall when Hank enters, and he's shoving Pinkman towards the exit. Hank reaches out and grabs the kid by the back of his hoodie, pulling him to safety. "You alright?" he demands. 

Pinkman's gone pale, his wide, blue eyes looking fractured. He's looking anywhere but at Walt. "Yeah," he says roughly. "Yeah, fine." 

"What did he say to you?" Hank demands. "Kid? What—" 

"Nothing important," Pinkman interrupts softly, and then slips out of his grasp. He disappears into the hallway and Hank turns to glare at Walt. 

Walt doesn't notice, because he's staring down at the floor. He looks defeated, for the first time since he was caught. 

It doesn't feel like victory, the way Hank had thought it might.


	6. Skyler

Skyler has a lot of regrets about the things she's done, but she can explain most of it away. Most of it she can write off as damage control, as trying to mitigate Walt's mistakes. She was trying to stabilize the situation, that was all. 

Except. 

_So I'm clear, these are just euphemisms?_

It had been almost easy, in the abstract, to tell Walt to _take care of it_. She hadn't known Pinkman had gone to police, _to Hank_. She'd thought he might hurt her family. It was a reasonable reaction. It was self-defense. 

Then the day Walt had been caught, she'd seen Pinkman. Standing there with Marie, of all people, looking lost and terribly young. She keeps remembering that night he came to dinner. How _polite_ he'd been, so well-mannered, like one of Flynn's friends. 

She never would have placed him as the boy that made that phone message, years ago. She never would have dreamed she'd someday try to talk her husband into killing him.

Of all the things Walter has done to her, that's the one thing she doesn't think she can forgive. 

There's a tap on the glass in front of her, and when she looks up there's Walt. Patiently waiting for her to pick up the phone. 

She lets out a shuddering breath and then does as he wants. 

"Hi, Skyler," Walt says, and he has dark circles. She can't imagine he's been sleeping well here, and there's some part of her, some ingrained instinct that still wants to take care of him. Some part of her that remembers when he first got sick, how she would have done anything to save him. 

But most of her wishes he'd just died then, so she wouldn't hate herself for still loving him now. 

"I didn't think I would get to see you," Walt says. 

"Hank pulled some strings," Skyler says, and her voice has taken on a strange tone. It's her work voice—professional, distant, calm. She can see Walter note this but he does not point it out. 

"I see," he says. "That was very nice of him." 

"He didn't do it for you," Skyler says, though she isn't sure Hank did it for her, either. She's not quite sure why he did it since he can't even look her in the eye anymore. 

"No," Walt agrees. "I don't suppose that he did. How…how are things?" 

"Hank and Marie want to keep Holly with them," Skyler says. "Just for now. I don't think they believe I'm a very good mother. Flynn is still in shock, though. He doesn't quite know whether to hate you or mourn you."

Walt swallows hard. "But you're not, I mean—you're not in any trouble, are you?" he asks quickly. "They have nothing on you. I told them—" 

"They're not pressing charges," she says. "Why would they? They have you." 

"Skyler," Walt starts. 

"They're taking the house, though," she says casually. "They've frozen all of our accounts and shut down the car wash. I've rented an apartment, that Marie is paying for. My sister despises me, but she doesn't want to see her niece and nephew on the streets." 

"You just need to get through these next months," Walt says urgently. "Things will get better, I promise you. I want you to know—" 

"What?" Skyler snaps. "That you've done this all for us?" 

Walt's eyes flicker downwards. He's wearing a drab blue jumpsuit. She had expected it to be orange, like it always was on TV. Maybe it was the special circumstances—did they have some sort of color code, in prisons? Was that a thing? She remembers Hank had explained they were keeping Walt away from the other prisoners, because apparently there were a few of them that might want him dead. 

It seems so surreal to think of. She'd dated bad boys in high school, of course. Motorcycles and leather and pot. She remembers her friends teasing her at her bachelorette party, laughingly saying _finally decided to play it safe, huh?_

"Have you—" Walt starts, before pausing awkwardly. He looks like he's afraid to ask her something, and she has to bite back a hysterical laugh. What else could there possibly be, that he's afraid it might upset her? "Do you know if Jesse is alright?" 

"Jesse," she repeats blankly. 

"Jesse Pinkman," Walt explains, as though she doesn't know exactly who it is. She knows the most likely scenario is that Walt dragged Jesse into this—she'd heard Hank and Gomez talking about how out of his depth the kid was. 

Still, it's hard not to blame him for everything. It was his world, not Walt's, after all. Walt would never have crossed over into it without him. 

"I think he's in some rehab place, but we aren't exactly pen pals," Skyler says tightly. "I wouldn't know." 

"This is very important, Skyler," Walt says. "Do you know if he's told the police anything else? I tried to ask my lawyer to look into it, but he's basically just phoning it in. I haven't even seen him in two weeks." 

"I haven't heard anything," she says finally. "But I'm not exactly the first person Hank would come running to tell, now am I?" 

"You would have heard about this," Walt decides, letting out a relieved breath. He leans his forehead up against the glass between them, and it pushes against his skin strangely. It's so weird, having that between them. It's like living a metaphor. "Good. That's good." 

"Good?" she repeats hollowly. "What exactly is good about any of this? You have destroyed us. You have destroyed me, your children, yourself." Skyler pushes forward, angrily meeting Walt's eyes. "Was it worth it?" 

Walt pushes back from the glass, one of his hands crawling half up the edge, like he's forgotten he can't just reach out and touch her. "I'm not sure quite yet," he says. 

"What is that supposed to mean?" Skyler demands, and her professional tone dissipates completely. "Please don't tell me there's still more to come." 

"I can't let this all be for nothing," Walt says quietly. "I have a plan. It's hit a bit of an unexpected snag, but it'll come around. _He'll come around_. And then—" 

"No, no more plans," Skyler cuts him off. She presses her eyes shut until she feels the tears retreat. "Can't you see yet that it's over? This is the end." 

"I know," Walt says, to appease her. "It's not that sort of plan. I know I'm not getting out of here, and I'm not going to hurt anyone else. You don't have anything to worry about." 

"That's good," Skyler says. "Because I don't want anything from you, Walt. Not anymore. That's not why I'm here."

His eyes bore into her then, calculating the way they only ever used to be when he was working on an experiment. His microscope eyes, she used to call them. 

"Then why are you here?" he asks. 

"I needed to see you," she says. "I had to be sure it was really over." 

"It's over," Walt assures her. 

Skyler nods, placing a hand over her mouth to hold in a sob. "Okay," she says. 

"I need you to know," Walt says, "I never meant for you to get hurt." 

"Yes you did," Skyler says. "Maybe not at first, but you did." 

Walt runs a hand down his face. "I don't know what you want me to say here, Skyler." 

"Nothing, Walt," she says. "There's nothing you can say." 

So she hangs up the phone.


	7. Marie

Hank hadn't wanted her to come here that first time. Well, his exact words had been, _we can't adopt the damn kid, Marie_ , but she figured she owed him this. So she had baked him cookies. They had crumbled to pieces and she had tried to save them by pressing them into a brownie pan like it was a crumble cake. 

Jesse had accepted her pathetic little peace offering with grace she hadn't expected, but something had seemed off. His blank, polite attitude had reminded her of her sister that horrible night that felt so long ago—the night she'd gotten up from the table, and walked straight into the pool. 

Marie hadn't done enough for her sister, because she hadn't understood the signs. 

She decided then and there she wasn't going to make the same mistake again, so this became a weekly thing. Hank mocks her for it endlessly, but she can't tell if he's truly annoyed or secretly proud of her visits. Either way, he'd started to use her to pass on his messages like she was some kind of well-dressed carrier pigeon:

_"Everything's sorted, it's like he never talked to us, okay? Remind him to keep his damn mouth shut about it all so he doesn't get himself killed."_

_"Walt's been moved to solitary. Let the him know, yeah?"_

_"Tell the kid that sentencing is next week, he won't need to testify. It's almost over."_

She just nods along as he gives her the messages, but she never, ever, passes them along. 

She can't bear to bring up Walt to Jesse. In all these little visits, she has never mentioned him once. She's tried, but his name gets stuck in her throat. 

Jesse just lets her chatter on about whatever, nodding or politely responding but not adding much of his own. She had finally gotten him to speak of Andrea and Brock, the catalyst that had thrown Jesse back into her and Hank's lives, but he rationed his words carefully. She doesn't even know if she's helping him by coming here—maybe she's only helping herself.

Still, she's never had any ulterior motives in doing this. Not until now. 

Hank had sat her down before she could leave this morning and explained that they really needed to know what Walt had said to Jesse, in those brief moments they'd been alone. She had seen how much Hank hadn't wanted to ask this of her, but they were worried Walt was planning something, and his favorite tool to success has always been Jesse Pinkman. 

They couldn't take the chance that Jesse was a time bomb, biding his time before following through with some plan. 

She feels like she's the one wearing the wire this time, as she sits waiting in the recreation area of Clear Waters. There is a fountain behind her, the sound of trickling water washing over her and doing more to set her on edge than calm her down. 

Jesse arrives a few minutes later. He's shaved his beard and it makes him look so much younger that her heart aches just a bit. He's wearing slightly too big sweat pants and a loose Henley shirt, and she wonders for the first time if he'd ever had anyone to go get him his own things—then she wonders if they're even allowed personal belongings here. 

It isn't a prison, but you aren't allowed to leave. There are locks on all the windows and doors and everything is strung with alarms. Marie had to be searched three times just to make it this far. 

"Marie?" Jesse says hesitantly, and she realizes she's been staring. He'd tried to call her 'Mrs. Schrader' her first time here, but she'd put a stop to that right away. Something about the way he had said _Mr. White_ made her want avoid any semblance of comparison. 

He sits down across from her, looking concerned. She presses her eyes shut for a moment and takes a deep breath. He's been lied to and manipulated so much by so many people, and she can't bring herself to do it too. She just can't. 

"Hank wants me to find out what Walter said to you," she says bluntly, and opens her eyes to watch his reaction. 

Jesse gives a strange little grin, and looks away. "Didn't want to come himself, huh?" 

"He thought I could use our visits to get you to confide in me," she says honestly. 

"He was right," Jesse admits. "You probably could have." 

"But I wouldn't do that," Marie continues. "I wouldn't use you that way. So you can tell me or not, but that's up to you." 

"There's really nothing to tell," Jesse says after a moment. "I'm done doing the things Mr. White asks me to do. Do you really want to know the details?" 

Marie thinks about it for a moment and decides that no, she really doesn't. Hank suspects it has to do with Walt's missing money, and he's probably right. Except that money has a story of its own, doesn't it? Hank knows everything, but even though he isn't talking Marie's not stupid. She knows something horrible must have happened, for Jesse to have had this sort of breakdown. 

You didn't toss millions out into the street over nothing. 

"No," she says quietly. "That's good enough for me." 

Jesse watches her warily for a moment, fiddling with the edge of his oversized shirt. "Why are you here?" he asks suddenly. 

"What?" Marie asks, startled by his question. She realizes suddenly that he's never asked it of her before, and it must be because he thought he knew. He's been waiting for the other shoe to drop, for her to attempt to coax some information from him. Now he can't figure out why she's been here at all, if that was never the point. 

"If you don't want anything from me," Jesse says slowly, "then why are you here?" 

He looks honestly bewildered and she has to hold in a long overdo sob. She puts on a smile instead, laughing awkwardly. "If you don't want me here—" she starts. 

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," Jesse says. 

"You looked like you needed someone," she says. 

"And?" Jesse demands, his voice very carefully controlled. They forced him into therapy and all it seems to have taught him is how better to hide what he feels. She can't even tell if he's angry or upset. 

"And maybe I needed someone, too," she admits. 

Jesse nods then, and sits back against the couch. "You should go talk to your sister." 

Marie freezes. At first she wonders where the hell that came from, and then she wonders when Jesse started knowing her better than she knows herself. She thinks of her therapist Dave, who she hasn't seen in ages, and she wonders guiltily if she's been using Jesse as a replacement for him and her sister both. 

Maybe he'd been right to be wary of her motives. 

"I don't see what she has to do with anything," Marie says, sitting taller and fastidiously smoothing the wrinkles along her pant legs.

"She probably needs you more than I do," Jesse says. "And I think you need her too." 

"I'm just supposed to forgive her?" Marie asks sharply. Jesse looks unfazed by her tone, and she shrinks back guiltily. It says so much, that he can't even bother to fight back against some unprovoked attack. 

"You've forgiven me," he says. "And you don't even know me." 

"Maybe that makes it easier," she says. "Anyway, you tried to do the right thing. She never did, not until she had to." 

Jesse leans forward intently, more engaged than she's ever seen him. Usually he's barely here as she talks, just staring at his feet, or the wall, until she gives up and leaves. 

"It's not her fault, what happened," he explains. "Mr. White he just—I don't know, maybe it's because of who he was before, or who we thought he was, but he's got this power, right? Like, he's had it, all this time. He didn't know he had it, and we didn't know he had it, but it was always there, coming out, bit by bit." 

Marie frowns at him. "Did they put you back on those pills? Because I—"

"No," Jesse says in frustration, pushing to his feet. "You don't understand. What he did to you was awful, but it wasn't the same. Being lied to—sometimes it's better that way. The ones that he hurt the most are the ones he told the truth." 

"Jesse, I didn't come here to complain about my problems," she says. "Please. Sit down. I just wanted to check on you." 

"Well, maybe you shouldn't," Jesse says hesitantly, even as he does as she asks and drops back down into his seat. "I mean, it's weird right? It's weird that you're here." 

"You saved us," Marie tells him firmly. She looks over at him until he finally meets her eyes. "I just keep thinking, what if we couldn't catch him? How many more people would have died? But you saved us and now I want to save you." 

"It's too late for me," Jesse says. 

Marie shakes her head. "There are three more requests from Andrea at the front desk, last time I checked," she says. "She wants to see you." 

"It isn't safe," Jesse says. 

"Walt can't hurt you anymore," Marie promises. 

"Of course he can," he laughs. "He will never _not_ hurt me." 

It hits her then why she's really here, though she still can't explain it to him. She feels responsible, in some distant sort of way, for what's been done to him. Walt was her family, and she never knew what he was. It's like those people her and Hank used to laugh about while watching the news: _Next door to a serial killer, and they never knew. Said he was the best neighbor they ever had._

Walt isn't who she thought, Jesse's right about that much. She's mostly come to accept that, but it's still hard to imagine him systemically taking this kid apart, piece by piece, until all that's left is this broken shell. 

"He can't hurt you anymore," she says again. She stands and drops down beside him, and he turns towards her warily. "You know that, right? Because you broke his control, you got out, and now you're free. You did the right thing, Jesse. You did, without any help from him." 

"I know that," he says, though he doesn't sound sure. "I know I did the right thing, for maybe the first time in my life. But it doesn't feel any different. It doesn't feel any better. I haven't been absolved. I haven't been—" 

"Hey," Marie says softly, reaching out to touch him. She's never touched him before, she realizes. She expects him to pull away like a startled animal, but instead he just goes still. "You were never the real bad guy in this. You've been trying to do the right thing for awhile now and that counts for something, okay? None of us get instant absolution. The only thing that matters is how hard we keep trying." 

Jesse starts to pull away and Marie drags him closer on instinct, hugging him tightly. She thinks he's going to fight her for a moment, but he never does. He falls against her instead, shaking like he's crying, though she can't hear a sound. 

"It's just…I loved him," Jesse confesses, like it's the worst thing he's ever done.

"I know, sweetie, I know," she says. 

She's sure Walter never would have gotten away with any of this, if they hadn't all loved him so damn much.


	8. Todd

When Mr. White is ushered through door, Todd is surprised to see how much he has changed. He looks frail in a way he never has before. His intelligent eyes have dulled and he can see his bones through his skin. It upsets Todd to see him this way, but there's nothing to be done about it now. 

One of the other inmates, marked with Aryan tattoos, shoves Mr. White as he tries to make his way to the booth. The man gives Todd a quick nod before getting dragged back through the doors by one of the guards. 

Todd watches until he disappears, and then returns his attention to Mr. White. He seems surprised to see Todd here, and wastes no time in grabbing up the phone. Todd lifts his own, trying to give Mr. White an encouraging smile. He doesn't want him to think he's not here as a friend. 

"Hi, Mr. White," he says pleasantly. 

"You can't be here," he whispers urgently. "They took away my visitation, and if Hank finds out—" 

"Ms. Lydia got me in," Todd says. "New ID and everything. She's still got friends in high places, you know." 

Mr. White doesn't look any less anxious, and Todd sighs slightly. He's always been so hard to please. "It's not as if there's anything more they can do to you, right?" he asks gently. "You can't spare a few minutes, for an old friend?" 

He finally nods after a moment, relaxing into the chair and rubbing a hand down his eyes. "Why are you here?" he asks. 

"Just checking in," Todd says casually. "A warrant went out for my arrest. Uncle Jack, too. Something about that kid. You remember? The one on the dirt bike? Well, you can imagine our surprise. Luckily we're pretty off grid, so they don't really know where to look or what we look like." 

"Todd," Mr. White starts. 

"We know it's you, it's okay," Todd says. "You're sick. I understand. You probably don't even know what you're doing. You wouldn't be a rat, if you did, right?" 

"I'm just trying to make my peace before I die," Mr. White says. 

"Yeah, yeah, I get that," Todd says. "You probably should have stuck to confessing to your own crimes, though, huh? From what I can tell, Jesse's just about the only one you didn't sell out." 

Mr. White's eyes harden like stones, and Todd has to catch his breath. Mr. White is still a thing to behold, even in here. He's glad he came, so he could see him like this one last time. 

"You listen to me," Mr. White says tightly. "You stay away from him." 

"I've got no problems with Jesse, Mr. White," Todd says easily. "I like him real well. I was so sorry to hear he got sent back to rehab. I'd been thinking of giving him a job offer." 

"No," Mr. White says, and it's the first time Todd's ever seen him look scared. "No, look, Jesse can't even cook properly. I've been carrying him all this time. You took to it much faster than he did, Todd. You don't need him." 

Lots of people make the mistake of thinking Todd is stupid, just cause he likes things simple. It gives him an advantage, because people aren't as careful around him, and he gets to see a lot. 

Todd has seen them cook together more than once, and there's no faking that. Jesse knew those steps every bit as well as Mr. White, maybe even just a bit better. 

But Mr. White doesn't have much left, so he supposes he can give him this. 

"Yeah, sure, Mr. White," he says. "No one cooks like you." 

"Right," he says. "No one." 

"Sure," Todd says amicably. "You were one of the greats." Todd sighs then, because it's so hard to see him reduced to this. "You really shouldn't have talked, Mr. White." 

"I got caught," he says quietly. "I knew it was over." 

"You've still got your family, though," Todd reminds him. "Uncle Jack wasn't real pleased with you, he'd been thinking to pay them a visit." 

Mr. White goes pale. "No, Todd, look, you can't do that, okay? You have to leave them alone. I'm the one that you want. They don't have anything to do with this. They don't know anything." 

Todd nods, because he gets that. He's much more civil than his uncle, but there's only so much he can do. "Yeah, that's what I told him," he says. "He wanted to get you taken care of right away, you know. Quick-like. But I'd hate to see you go out like that, Mr. White." 

Todd leans forward. "See, I figure a man like you, done the kind of things you've done, you deserve some say in how you go out. So I've been holding Uncle Jack off for now, but that's not gonna last for long." 

"I don't care about myself," Mr. White says. "If you want to help, I need you to promise me that my family and Jesse will be safe. Can you do that?" 

Todd nods. "Sure, I can do that," he says easily. "They ain't done anything to us, it's not them my uncle wants. But you can't get out of this one, you understand that, right?" 

Mr. White takes a deep breath and nods. "Yes," he says. "I never expected to." 

Todd nods sadly. "Right," he agrees. "Still, it doesn't mean there's nothing I can do to help. I promise if you do what I say, it doesn't have to hurt." 

Mr. White opens his eyes, watching him with that calculating gaze. Todd can tell he hasn't figured it out yet, but that's okay. Todd is used to being underestimated. 

He knows he has a subtle sort of power, not like his uncle Jack. He just asks for things nicely, and they get done. There's an entire network inside of this prison, and they all know who he is. They don't mind doing him little favors. 

"Check your pocket, Mr. White," Todd says softly. 

Mr. White pats his pockets, before finally noticing what hadn't been there before. He swallows and then reaches inside, carefully pulling out Todd's little gift. 

"You have until tomorrow to use it," Todd says. "After that, I can't protect you anymore." 

Mr. White opens his hand and starts to laugh. He laughs so loud that everyone turns to watch. Todd smiles brightly, because he supposes it is pretty funny, and he's glad Mr. White understands. 

He figures it's almost poetic, bringing him his very own brand of blue meth.


	9. Saul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for any errors etc, as I probably should not be posting this tonight. Am a bit sleep deprived from my crazy holiday work schedule, but falafel_musings very kindly requested more and I wanted to oblige! Only one chapter left now! I shall try to have it up soon. 
> 
> WARNINGS: Character death, but no one that didn't die in the show, if that makes you feel better. ;-)

_—just confirmed that Walter White, better known as Heisenberg, died of a crystal meth overdose last night. Authorities appear to be uncertain how he could have obtained the drugs while he was supposedly in solitary, but have released a statement that—"_

Saul barely hears the news report, because it's been playing on loop all morning and he's started to tune it out. Instead he focuses in on Jesse, who is kicked back on his bed staring at the TV with wide eyes. His expression might be horror or surprise or awe, Saul's not quite sure. 

Saul takes a deep breath as he comes to a stop at the foot of the bed, conveniently blocking the TV. "So have you heard?" he demands. 

Jesse pulls his eyes from the screen long enough to give him a withering glare, and motions impatiently to the newscast. 

"What?" Saul asks, glancing behind him. "No, not about that. I mean, sure, it's terrible, but the guy was gonna be dead in like what, three months anyway? At least he got to go out on a high." 

"Seriously?" the kid mutters, still staring daggers at him. Saul's getting real sick of being villainized by people he's trying to _help_ , and he rolls eyes.

"Right. Sorry. I apologize for my ineloquence," he says, but he knows his tone doesn't hit the mark anywhere near contrite. "Are we feeling bad about Walt now? Is that the thing for this week? Because if I'd known, I would have come with a eulogy prepared." 

"Why did you come, Saul?" Jesse asks dryly. 

"This," Saul says, and pulls some photos from his portfolio to toss in Jesse's lap. "Those weren't easy to get, either. You never saw them. I never had them. They don't exist, got it? You know, if your new best friend the DEA agent's wife asks." 

The kid doesn't answer, instead spreading the images out in front of him and staring at them with that intensity he'd gained the last few years. Saul couldn't imagine that jumpy kid he'd first met staying this focused on anything. 

"What is this?" Jesse whispers, even though he's smart enough to have figured it out already. Saul has made the mistake of thinking Jesse isn't smart before, but that's never been the kid's problem. 

Denial, refusing to acknowledge the obvious, now _that's_ the kid's problem. 

"You know," Saul says. "They're all dead, in case you were curious. I know you can't exactly ID them all by what's left of their faces. I guess that's what happens when you get turned into Swiss cheese with automatic firearms. Still, I have it on good authority no one made it out alive." 

"When did this happen?" Jesse asks, and glances up. "I haven't heard anything." 

"Well, you wouldn't," Saul says. "It's hardly newsworthy. So what if a couple of rival gangs shot each other all to pieces? Who the fuck cares? Now Heisenberg offs himself, that's breaking news." 

"Saul," Jesse snaps. 

"Yesterday," Saul shrugs. "I don't know the exact time, but Walt offs himself right as the last threat to his family gets decimated? Coincidence? I think not." 

"Fuck," Jesse whispers, as pushes one of the pictures away from him like he might get burned. He presses the palms of his hands against his eyelids, like he might be able to un-see them. 

"The guy's dead, and he's still pulling the strings." Saul pauses for a moment. "I mean, we are sure he's dead, right?" 

Jesse glances up and gives him another glare. "Why are you telling me all of this?" he asks. "Why are you even here?" 

"Thought you might have some vested interest in it, considering these psychos were the last people that knew of your connection to Heisenberg," Saul says wryly. "Well, you know, aside from me, and the DEA. And the Whites. And maybe—" 

"Did you have a point?" Jesse interrupts. 

"You probably won't be conscripted to help them make meth or get yourself brutally murdered now," he says, very slowly. "I apologize if this isn't the good news I thought it was. Perhaps you might feel better if I put together a list of people that still want you dead?"

The kid obviously still has selective hearing, because he ignores that. "They know how he did it?" he asks. 

There's something strange about the way he asks it, and Saul narrows his eyes. "They're not sure," he says. "He was in solitary almost the whole time, and it's not exactly like they can pass notes. Schrader thinks he just started spreading tales to anyone he could about his amazing meth lab that held both his formula and supplies, and the millions to be made thereof." Saul shrugs. "Poor saps that took the bait probably didn't realize the lab was run by rifle-toting Nazi sociopaths." 

Jesse's hand hesitates over one of the photos. "That's Todd," he says, sounding shaken. 

Saul glances down at the picture. "Yeah, looks like," he agrees. "He's pretty fucking dead. Christ, kid. You're lucky Walt liked you so much—he doesn't exactly make a habit of leaving survivors, does he? " 

"Sometimes he couldn't see any other way," Jesse says. "And if he couldn't find it, then maybe there wasn't one." 

"You're sounding a little like his disciple again," Saul says in concern. "They haven't been using that electro-therapy have they? Fried your brain, maybe?" Saul experimentally knocks on the side of Jesse's head, and the kid bats him away. "Remember when you wanted the guy dead? I thought you'd be celebrating. You're free and clear, kiddo."

"Yeah," he says, but he sounds so utterly dejected it's making Saul uncomfortable. "But there's always a cost, isn't there?" 

Saul can't quite see the problem here. Dead Nazis weren't bad for anyone—it was practically a victimless crime. Anyway, it's not like the kid had a thing to do with it. 

Saul pauses for a moment at the thought, remembering the letter Jesse had slipped him to mail right before he'd been carted off to rehab. 

Nah, he decides. He's pretty sure it had been addressed to the girlfriend, Lynn or Jane or Drea or whatever, and the good ole' days of Walt and Jesse pulling off something like this together were long gone. Anyway, the kid had never had the stomach for mass killings. It was one of his more inconvenient qualities. 

"Speaking of costs," Saul says wryly. "Not to be indelicate, but considering I've received my last paycheck from our dearly departed friend, we're gonna either need to work something out or go our separate ways." 

"I don't have anything left, Saul," Jesse says. "I can't pay you, and what would I need you to do for me now anyway?" 

"I don't know," Saul says. "There is the small matter of Walter's millions." 

"You think I have it?" Jesse laughs. 

"Well, he was too smart to leave it to his wife. She's under a microscope. They know she was a hell of a lot more involved than Walt let on. You're getting a free pass cause you're the whole reason they caught the guy, but she makes one false move and she's gone. He couldn't leave her a single fucking cent," he says. "And that leaves you."

"I'd just sold him out," Jesse says slowly. "I'm the reason he got caught." 

"But he still trusted you," Saul says. "Maybe because of that, because he knows you try to do the right thing. We aren't exactly inundated with Dudley Do-Rights in our line of work, you're probably the only one he knew wouldn't keep the money for yourself." 

Jesse smirks, and it brings with it a strange sense of nostalgia. He hasn't seen Jesse grin like that since the start of this. "Say you're right," he says. "You think I'd give it to you?" 

"I think we both know managing money isn't exactly your strong suit," Saul says dryly. "Who else are you gonna go to?" 

"It doesn't really matter, does it?" Jesse asks. "It's not like I have it. Where exactly do you think I've hidden it? In the lining of the padded cells downstairs?" 

"Ha," Saul snaps. "You'd think of something, and you're probably stupid enough to try and get it to Walt's family. Well don't. They're fine. They've got Schrader looking out for them." 

"He was forced to step down," Jesse reminds him. "It's not like he came out of it a hero this time." 

"Well, yeah, but he's still an agent. The DEA's not that stupid, they're not going to fire their goddamned golden goose," Saul says. "Look, it's not your responsibility, all right? If he didn't give it to you, then I doubt anyone will find it. Who the hell even knows how much it was? What a fucking waste." 

"Eighty million," the kid says, easy like it's answer on Jeopardy— _what is the amount of money Walter White stockpiled before he was caught?_ "It was eighty million." 

"Then you do have it," Saul says, his eyes lighting up as he considers the possibilities. 

"No, I don't," Jesse snaps. "I've got maybe a couple grand stashed away at my place, if it's even still there, and that's it. So I think it's time for you to move on to greener pastures, don't you?" 

"You're not telling me something," Saul insists. "Maybe you don't have the money, that's not a secret you could keep all on your own—but you're hiding something." 

"He offered it to me, okay?" Jesse says. "Well, _ordered_ me to take it, is more accurate. He wanted me to keep it for his family, but I wouldn't go along with it. Okay?"

"He told you where it is," Saul realizes. "He actually told you." 

"He insinuated the general area it may or may not be buried in, but he didn't exactly draw me a treasure map," Jesse says sarcastically. "Unless you want to spend the rest of your life in the desert with a shovel, it won't do you much good." 

"I'd take my chances," Saul says wryly. "But you still want to keep your promise to him, don't you? That's why you haven't told anyone." 

"Want to?" Jesse laughs. "No, I don't want to. I've done the last favor I'll ever do for him, my debt has been more than paid. We're all better off without it anyway." 

"Speak for yourself," Saul says. 

Jesse just sighs, and shakes his head as he looks away. "This is all theoretical anyway, okay? I wouldn't let him tell me where to find it, and now that he's dead I'm sure no one ever will." 

Saul has never been rich in the sense of yachts and private islands, but he's always done well for himself. His parents never had much, but he's always had an enterprising soul. He has a knack for knowing what people want and what they'll pay to get it. And he's got just the right mix of knowledge and charm to get it for them. 

He's always tried to avoid clients like Jesse, because he's never been able to figure out what the hell it is the kid wants.

Saul's had clients that have killed for money, and while they're not exactly the kind you take out to brunch at least he _understands_ them. 

"All that money," he says, and he feels sort of sick at the thought of turning it down. "Christ, can you imagine? What would you do, with eighty million dollars?" 

Jesse shrugs. "I'd give it away," he says. 

Saul snorts, but damned if he doesn't believe the kid really would. "Right," he says. "Forgot who I was asking." 

"You don't owe me anything, you know," Jesse says when Saul doesn't leave. "You don't have to keep coming here." 

"Yeah, I know, but maybe you're not the only one that made promises to Walt," Saul says. "This may surprise you, but I plan to keep mine too." 

"I never said I was keeping mine," Jesse says. "And whatever he told you to do, you're probably better off not doing it." 

"He asked me to look out for you," Saul snaps. And maybe it's sentimentality, but then, he's not here for Walt, not exactly. Saul always keeps his word to his clients, be they scumbags or assholes or psychopaths. 

"So that's why I'm here, okay?" Saul tells him. "I said I'd help you whether you want me to or not, and you're not getting out of this place until you get your head on straight. I don't care if I have to tell them to hold you another six months—" 

"You can't do that," Jesse interrupts quickly. "No way. No way would they—" 

Saul curses to himself as he sees the light bulb go off. He should know better by now than to give the kid enough rope to hang them both. 

"Wait…wait. Who exactly is paying for this?" Jesse asks, very quietly. When Walt got dangerous he got loud, but the kid's always at his most dangerous when he goes focused and calm. "No way the DEA would shell out for this place. Not for me." 

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?" Saul backpedals. "Look, you're missing the point—" 

"Who is paying for this?" Jesse snarls. Saul sees a nurse look up and glance in the room, before heading off when she sees the kid just standing there, looking harmless. 

Harmless, fucking hell. 

"It's just some non-profit," Saul says reluctantly, holding out his hands in surrender pose. "You're not going to get a bill for any of this, I promise. There's nothing—" 

"If you don't tell me, I will find out," Jesse asks. 

Saul's certain he will, too. The kid learned from the master, after all. 

"The Jenny Pinkman fund," he finally admits, hoping the significance will go un-noted. 

"That fucking bastard." Jesse laughs incredulously, but at least he steps back. 

"He just wanted to make sure you would be safe," Saul says quickly. "He made me set this up months back, a year ago even, back when you were still using. It was just a back up plan, okay, and it's actually almost a legit foundation. I'm pretty proud of how it turned out." 

"You don't get it," Jesse says, looking back up at him. "You don't know what it means. Mr. White never did anything without a reason. This isn't a favor, it's an obligation. Emotional blackmail." He laughs again, and runs his hands over his hair. "He's trying to control me even now." 

"So don't let him," Saul says. "Get better, and get out of here. Prove him wrong." 

"I can promise you one thing," Jesse says firmly. "I'm not staying here another six months."

Saul believes him. He bets the kid could get out of here tonight if he wanted, never mind its many alarms and rent-a-cops. He never would have imagined it when they first met, but Jesse makes a decent criminal despite his conscience—or hell, maybe even because of it.

Credit where credit is due, and all. Saul's known plenty of men to pull of a damn good heist, but Jesse's the only one he's ever seen do it without anyone ever knowing they'd been robbed. 

"And you shouldn't," Saul says. "Because you're doing better, right? You'll be out of here right on schedule, and I'll be there when you are. Not because you want me to be and not because I want to be, but because we survived." Saul meets the kid's eyes. "We survived this, okay, despite everything. We're like fucking brothers in arms, and you haven't got anyone else." 

"I don't know whether that's touching or terrifying," Jesse says, but he sounds almost amused, so Saul counts it as a win. "But you're wrong, you know. You're not all I have." 

"Glad to hear it," Saul says, as he picks up the photos and shoves them into his briefcase. "Don't get me wrong, cause I like you, kid, but I really don't want to be your new substitute daddy." 

"Just in case I didn't make this clear enough already," Jesse says. "You know you're fired, right?" 

"Clear as a bell," Saul says. "It doesn't change a thing. The last paycheck Walt gave me was actually for a whole fucking lot. I'll always just be a phone call away. Night or day, got it?" 

Jesse nods, but his eyes have already gone back to the newscast, where they're broadcasting another slideshow of the transformation of Walter White. Saul moves to leave. 

"Hey, Saul?" Jesse calls, and he sounds very young suddenly. Saul sighs, because he hates that the kid can make him stop just like that. He should be halfway to the parking lot by now, because he knows better than to ever get attached. It's why he usually just works with opportunistic scumbags. 

Still, he turns back. "What?" he demands. 

"Do you think he knew?" Jesse asks softly. "I mean, about what happened to Todd's gang? Before he died?" 

"Schrader questioned him about it, just an hour before he overdosed," Saul says, but he's not sure if it's the answer Jesse's looking for. "So, yeah, he knew, kid. For whatever that's worth."


	10. Jesse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long! Got distracted by ~~Teen Wolf~~ life again, but the end is here. I'm still missing this show like crazy. I need my Breaking Bad fix so bad I might have to watch it all again.

His house has been repainted. There's one corner on the wall that's been missed both times, and it tells the story of the transformations that have happened here. The color his aunt had painted it, light mauve, that pristine white from when he'd tried to make this place a haven—and now muted blue, chosen by Andrea as Brock pulled constantly at his hand, demanding they stop for ice cream after. 

It looks picture-perfect, but his heart still gives a little stutter anytime the doorbell rings. 

Andrea is standing on the porch when he unlocks the deadbolt. "Sorry, forgot my key," she says breathlessly. Brock pushes in around her legs, shouting a quick greeting at Jesse before reaching for the controllers. 

"I thought you'd brought the last of it," Jesse says, as he grabs the bag from her and helps her inside. 

"For sure this time!" she says laughing. "We are officially living here. Scared yet?" 

Jesse laughs, but doesn't quite meet her eyes. "Not of you," he says. "Not ever." 

He knows there isn't much he has to be afraid of anymore, Walter had seen to that—he'd orchestrated the deaths of all their enemies, and then even killed himself. Jesse sort of hates that he felt more relief at hearing of Heisenberg's end on the news than he had when Saul had thrown those pictures at his feet. 

But maybe that's because of the part he'd played in their deaths. He still can't bring himself to celebrate the harm he's brought to others, and maybe that's for the best. Walt, at least, has no one to blame but himself.

He sets the bag on the table as Andrea bickers with Brock over what is and what is not acceptable dinner food, and tries not to think of Walt. He's down to three, four times a day—tops. He's getting better. 

He just can't get the last time they were together out of his head. 

He'd been so hurt then, so mad at Walt and at everything. He'd been so certain he knew what Walt was planning, that he was trying to tell him where the money was. Except it hadn't been about the money for once, not then. 

Walter had pulled the plug on the camera and then slammed him into the wall. He can still remember the feel of Walter's panicked, urgent words against his ear: _"This isn't about the money, the money's safe, all eighty million of it,"_ Walt had said, as he forced a piece of a folded paper into Jesse's pocket. _"This letter is more important than every cent of it. You have to mail it. Mail it, or all of us are dead."_

Gomez had come barreling in then, and forced them apart. 

Jesse figures he must have written the letter right in front of Schrader, in-between pages of confession. It had been kindly addressed to Ms. Lydia Rodarte-Quayle, informing her that Jack, Todd and the others had learned the DEA was after them and they were planning to wipe the operation clean—which just happened to include having her killed. Walt then went on to explain that he had very nobly left her out of his confession, but she would need to take care of the gang before any of them were safe. 

Jesse had agonized over whether or not he should have it sent. In the end he didn't do it for Walter. He did it for Andrea, for Brock, for Walt's kids. He did it for the Schraders and even for Saul. He did it for himself. 

After all, Mr. White may have been the devil but he's always been right, and with Jack's gang on the loose none of them would have been safe. 

He doesn't regret it, most of the time. Still, memories of Walter catch him off guard and stick in his throat. They still make him want to reach for the meth, for the heroine, even, mixed together and injected straight in like the way Jane used to do it. So fucking seamless you never even felt the needle go in. 

But most of the time he's fine. 

He stares into the bag Andrea had handed him and feels suddenly like he can't get any air. It's just things like this that still hurt. 

"What's all this?" he asks breathlessly. 

"Oh, the mail," Andrea says distractedly. "I wasn't sure what to do with it. I picked it up for you, kept it safe. I didn't want to bother you with it until you were better—until you were home." 

Jesse stares at the letter that sits on top of the pile of bills and junkmail, swallowing hard at the familiar, deliberate cursive. Walter always had surprisingly beautiful handwriting for a scientist, at least when he put his mind to it. 

There's no return address. He guesses Walt knew by the time he sent it he wouldn't be anywhere when it was received. 

"Is something wrong?" Andrea asks, and he glances up to see her watching him in concern. 

"No," he says. "No, everything's fine." 

"Okay," she says, leaning up to give him a quick kiss before disappearing into the kitchen, shouting to Brock as she does that it's Brussels sprouts or it's broccoli, and he'd better pick or might end up with both. 

Jesse reaches into the bag and pulls out the letter. He stares at it for a moment and envisions himself stuffing it down the trash compactor unopened, of lighting a match and holding it as it burns, of—

Except Walter never did anything without a reason, and whatever this is, it's a piece of the puzzle he left behind. 

He opens it and unfolds the single sheet of paper inside. He drops heavily onto the stool as he takes in the words, the sort of goodbye he'd meant to have the first time around but had been too angry and bitter to get. 

He still hasn't forgiven Walter White, but for some inexplicable reason he can't help but miss him like a phantom limb. 

"Jesse, why are you crying?" Brock asks softly. 

Jesse jerks up, brushing away the traitorous tears and laughing over at his surrogate son. "I'm just a little sad," he says. 

"Don't you still want us here?" Brock asks hesitantly. 

Jesse pushes off the stool and drops down beside him. "Of course," he says. "I don't know what I'd do without you and your mom. I'd be lost." 

"You wouldn't have to eat Brussels sprouts," Brock confides, looking sort of reluctant about dangling a life without Brussels sprouts in front of Jesse, lest he should abandon him for the better offer. 

Jesse just laughs, filing Walt back away where he belongs. "You're worth it," he promises. "Don't ever doubt that, okay?" 

Brock nods, and then leans up against Jesse's side, glancing down at the letter. "What is it?" he asks. 

"I think it's a treasure map," Jesse says, and folds the letter in half. 

"Are we going to go look for buried treasure?" Brock asks hopefully. 

Jesse places the letter in his pocket. "I'm going to let you in on a little secret," he says, glancing seriously at Brock. "It's a lesson I learned the hard way, from a very old friend." 

"Okay," Brock says, and he's watching Jesse with such trust it nearly breaks his heart. He knows he can't mess this up this time. He knows they don't need anything more than they already have.

"Sometimes treasure's more trouble than it's worth," he says.

_Jesse,_

_If you're reading this, I'm dead. I know I have no right to ask, but please make sure my family is taken care of._

_Because no matter what, you will always be my partner._

_Fifty-fifty, remember?_

_34 59 20 106 36 52 ___


End file.
